


Spiegel Im Spiegel

by Ingebjorg9



Category: Wallander Series - Henning Mankell
Genre: Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Noir, Detectives, Gen, Justice, Murder, Reflection, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 02:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingebjorg9/pseuds/Ingebjorg9
Summary: He wasn't sure how he should be feeling right now. There is no manual of either police work or life that has instructions on how to proceed when you not only understand why a crime was committed but also feel sorry for the perpetrator. When you're not even sure that you wouldn't have done the same yourself under the circumstances... Wallander finds that revenge casts a very long shadow. Written in memory of Henning Mankell, still sadly missed.





	Spiegel Im Spiegel

**Author's Note:**

> In loving memory of Henning Mankell, 3rd February 1948 – 5th October 2015

The lake was like a mirror.  He had rarely seen it so still, especially at this time of year, but there was barely a breath of wind over the surface of the dark water.

Wallander removed his sunglasses and stood for a few moments in the shadows, staring across the water at the motionless fir trees on the other side.  Then, gingerly, he stepped onto the fragile jetty and inched along it, almost on tiptoes, until he was almost at the end.  It heaved and groaned under his weight, and he guessed that it wouldn’t be long before the canoe club had it replaced.  Either that or it would wash away altogether.

Earlier in the year it would have been pleasant to swim here, or to fish.  He knew that Martinsson had a permit for one of the lakes; he couldn’t remember whether it was for this lake or the one at Krageholm.  Either way, he knew his colleague also appreciated the stillness and the quiet.  Often when he wanted to clear his head Wallander would stroll along the beach at Mossbystrand or by Sandskogen, but sometimes even that wasn’t enough.  Sometimes he had to come inland, away from the buffeting of the sea and the Baltic winds, into the forest or down to the lake.

With great care Wallander lowered himself until he was sitting on the jetty, then peered over the side and into the water.  He saw his own face, the reflection distorted somewhat by the ripples in the surface.  Beneath the surface, a small fish emerged from under the jetty, then darted back again.  Simultaneously, Wallander was looking at both his own reflection and the underwater world beneath, two worlds superimposed.

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander for a moment.  He wasn’t sure how he should be feeling right now.  There is no manual of either police work or life that has instructions on how to proceed when you not only understand why a crime was committed but also feel sorry for the perpetrator.  When you’re not even sure that you wouldn’t have done the same yourself under the circumstances.

Wallander shook his head.  Nobody should be allowed to take the law into their own hands, and yet...

He looked back into the water, at the dark image of his own face.  Who exactly am I looking at, he thought.  Who is this person who is thinking these things?

The rippling water beneath him held no definite answers.

He got up, inched back along the jetty and dragged his feet back in the direction of the car park.

* * *

 

The call had come in at half past one on a Tuesday afternoon.  It was early October and the wind was doing its best to blow the yellowed leaves from the trees.  Wallander had been sitting in his office gazing absentmindedly out the window.  There had been very little to do for the previous few weeks and he had been forced to catch up on his paperwork.  Halfway through a report describing trends in the previous quarter’s traffic offences Wallander had finally lost his concentration and turned his attention to what little he could see of the outside world.  When his phone rang he had been daydreaming for almost twenty minutes about the possibility of taking a holiday somewhere warmer.  The sudden noise of his desk phone startled him and brought his reverie to a juddering halt.

“Kurt here,” he barked into the receiver.  “What is it?”

The voice stammering on the other end was from the control room, and wondered if he could possibly go and check on the occupant of a small farm near Skårby.  The man’s neighbour had been alarmed by some strange noises that she said had come from the farm two nights ago.  Since then there had been no sign of the old man who lived there, which the woman insisted was very unusual.

Wallander sighed and reluctantly agreed.  He replaced the receiver and struggled into his jacket.  He had got to his office door before he realised his car keys were still on the desk.  He swore out loud and snatched the keys from the desk, slammed the door behind him and stamped out of the building to his car.

To calm himself, he took the coast road, before turning inland at Svarte.  He coasted through Balkåkra and before long the spire of Marsvinsholm church came into view.  He put his foot down and the car sped past the church, slowing only slightly for the bends by Marsvinsholm Castle, and soon was in sight of Skårby.  Wallander knew the farm he was to visit – he had driven past it many times and was familiar with the little blue cottage that stood some way back from the road, surrounded by a few willow trees.  First, however, he had decided to speak to the neighbour who had been so concerned about the old farmer.

Sonja Melander was an anxious-looking woman of about fifty.  She had long blonde hair that draped over her shoulders, and with which she fidgeted constantly while she spoke to him.  She had been locking up her own farm buildings on the previous Sunday night when she had heard a sort of whimpering sound coming from the neighbouring farm.  It was too far away to make out clearly what the strange noise was.  Eventually she had shrugged it off.  Perhaps it was a fox, or maybe her neighbour, old Mr Larsson, had got a new dog.  Foxes have been known to make unusual noises, dogs too.

“I was going to ask him about it the next day,” she said, twisting some strands of hair around her fingers.  “But I didn’t see him.  And that’s odd, because he goes for a walk every day at eleven o’clock.  Every day, rain or shine, we see him go down to the village.  He’s never missed a day, apart from the time a few years ago when he was laid up with pleurisy, so when I didn’t see him this morning I began to get worried.  It’s just not _like_ him to disappear.”

“And apart from the strange noises, have you noticed anything unusual at all?”

“No, nothing.”

She put a finger in her mouth and began to chew on the nail.  Wallander nodded, but inwardly groaned.  The police in Ystad were always being inundated by incidents like this.  Someone would take a trip without telling anyone, and someone else would get anxious and report them missing.  Nine times out of ten the “missing” person would be located by the end of the day, relaxing in a far-flung destination, quite unaware of the fuss they had inadvertently caused, and the police would have wasted several hours on “finding” them.  Wallander was perfectly sure that this was another of those cases.

“Could he have gone on holiday?  Or maybe to visit a relative?  A son or daughter perhaps?”

Sonja Melander shook her head vehemently.

“Oh no!  He never goes away anywhere.  He loves that farm.  And he doesn’t have any family, he told me himself.”

“I see.”  Wallander did his best to hide his scepticism.  He made his goodbyes and returned to his car for the short drive to the Larsson farm.  The car bumped up the uneven track towards the blue cottage and came to a halt in the yard in front of the house.  A battered Volvo estate was already parked there. Wallander assumed this was Larsson’s.  Wherever the man was, he hadn’t driven there.

Wallander stood outside for a minute, listening to the quiet.  The wind rustled the willow trees and a tractor engine throbbed vaguely somewhere out of sight.  Apart from that there was almost no noise.  He walked to the front door and knocked sharply.  No answer, utter silence from inside the house.  He knocked again.  Nothing.

He tried the door handle, and to his surprise it turned.  Pulling the door open, he put his head inside.  He saw only an ordinary hallway, drab and old-fashioned, but neat.  A coat rack by the door was piled high with coats, hats and scarves, and a walking stick leaned up against the wall.

Wallander called out, straining his ears to hear if there was any reply, but there was only silence.  Carefully, he stepped inside, closing the door after himself.  He listened for a moment or two, to see if he could get a feel for the house and its occupant.  A twinge in the pit of his stomach told him that something was not quite right.  Reluctantly he pushed open the door to his left.  The room was an orderly little study and lounge.  Nothing seemed out of place, although there were some sheets of paper on the desk.  Without touching them, Wallander looked to see what they were.  It looked like Larsson had been writing a letter to someone.  Wallander looked closer.  Yes, it was definitely at letter.  And he had ended it in mid-sentence, dropping his pen onto the desk beside the paper.  Had he been disturbed by a knock at the door, perhaps?

There was nothing else of immediate interest in the room.  Wallander returned to the hall and looked behind the other doors.  One led to a sparsely-furnished little bedroom, the other to the kitchen.  The kitchen was clean and tidy, but the table was set for a meal and a pot had been set next to the stove, apparently ready for heating.  Wallander lifted the lid and sniffed at what seemed to be a meat stew.  It had gone off while it waited to be cooked, that was certain.

Wallander replaced the pot lid and shook his head.  He felt as if he had stepped onto the _Marie Celeste_.  A man had abandoned a letter in the middle of a sentence.  He had left his meal all ready to be cooked, but had never cooked it.  He had apparently vanished into thin air.  It made Wallander increasingly uneasy.

As the house was obviously empty, the only thing to be done was to look in the barn, which appeared to be the only outbuilding on the property.  Wallander crossed to the barn door and pulled it open.  At first he could see only gloom inside.  As his eyes adapted to the dimness he immediately wished that they hadn’t.  Tied to one of the barn’s central pillars was the bloodied and misshapen body of an elderly man, who Wallander assumed to be Albin Larsson.

Wallander knew at once that he would never forget the sight he saw before him at that moment.  He reeled backwards, his head spinning.  Briefly, he thought he was going to be sick, but after a couple of minutes leaning on the side of the barn the world steadied itself again.  He took a deep breath and forced himself to go back into the barn, to try and make sense of the gruesome mess inside.

The old man was definitely dead, no doubt about that.  He had been tied very tightly to the pillar.  No matter how he had struggled he would not have been able to get free.  At first Wallander thought he had been badly beaten, but looking more closely at Larsson’s wounds he could see that they looked more like bad burns.  Something seemed to have been tipped down onto him from above, causing the terrible injuries.  Wallander found a small torch in his pocket and shone it up into the roof beams.  There seemed to be a bottle of something on a beam above Larsson’s head, from which a noxious substance had poured down onto the man.  Wallander shuddered.  He could feel the bile rising in his throat again.  How could anyone do something so vicious to another human?

He went back outside, took out his phone and called Nyberg.  Then he sat in his car with his eyes closed and the radio turned up until Nyberg and the others arrived. 

* * *

 

Once the other officers were busying themselves around the farm, all he craved was silence again, away from their incessant chattering and clamour.  Remembering the unfinished letter, he went back into the house and shut himself in the study.  He was careful not to touch anything until the house had been swabbed for fingerprints, but had a thorough look around all the same.

The letter lay where it had been left, in the middle of the desk.  Larsson’s handwriting was atrocious.  Wallander squinted at the paper and made out the last sentence fragment that Larsson had scribbled before being interrupted.

_It can’t be helped if..._

If what?  And what can’t be helped?  Was the letter even relevant to the horrible fate that had befallen its writer?  Probably not, Wallander thought.

He sighed and straightened up, feeling a cramp beginning in his back muscles.  As he did so, he noticed a small gleam from the floor beside the desk.  He squatted down to look more closely, and saw that it was a silver button that seemed to have fallen from someone’s jacket.  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the button and hold it to the light.  The polished metal glinted in the slanting rays of sun from the window.  It was a very distinctive button, and in its centre there appeared to be a musical note.

Wallander felt a cold hand clutching at his heart.  He had seen a coat with buttons like this, and he knew exactly who it belonged to.  Several pieces of a very old puzzle began to connect in his mind.  The picture they made was extremely unpleasant.  Wallander wished to whatever gods may be looking down on beleaguered police detectives that it was not so, but what he had suddenly seen could not be unseen. 

* * *

 

Dragging his feet along the lake shore, Wallander gazed absently up at the treetops above him.  Although his body loitered by the lake, he wasn’t really there at all.  In his mind he was still in the house of his suspect, Janne Svensson.  A pianist whose work he had much admired, whose performances he had seen many times at the theatre in Ystad, and elsewhere.  A pianist whose most memorable work was born out of a tragic past which had never let him go, not even now.  Especially not now.

The two men faced each other and Wallander had not even needed to say why he had come.  Svensson had evidently been expecting him.  The musician had remained sitting on a stool in front of the piano in his lounge, where he had been playing a scale over and over again on Wallander’s arrival.

“I did what I had to do,” the old man had said.  “If you know anything about me, you know why I did it.”

Wallander had nodded.  He did know.  Revenge had a very long shadow – fifty years long.  Yet the man’s actions couldn’t merely be described as revenge, and when Wallander had said the word out loud the old fellow had snorted in scorn.

“Revenge!” he scoffed in indignation.  “If I merely wanted revenge don’t you think I’d have taken my hunting rifle and shot him fifty years ago?  No, I wanted him to suffer for what he did, just the way my Lena suffered at his hands.  Justice, Kurt.  I just wanted justice.”

Justice.  For a horrible crime with a long shadow.  It was well known that fifty years previously Svensson’s beloved wife had died a brutal, prolonged death, for which the police had not had sufficient evidence to even make an arrest.  Wallander had never been given a chance to look at the case files, but on occasion he had been able to talk to Svensson, and once or twice, usually when he had been drinking, the old pianist had intimated that he knew exactly who the killer was.  If he had the chance, Svensson had said, he would see to it that the murderer was repaid in full.

Wallander wished he had paid more attention to this.  He had merely taken it as the drunken ramblings of a man who has suffered beyond what flesh and blood can bear.  On finding the silver button, he had realised that Svensson’s justice had been served, and that he, Wallander, might have been able to prevent another murder if he had only taken the old man more seriously.

When he said words to this effect, however, Svensson had shaken his head.

“No.  There was nothing you or anyone could have done to stop me.  I think you already know that.”

Their eyes met, and Wallander nodded.

“Why now, though?”

“I don’t have all that many years left, and nor did that bastard Larsson. Yes, he managed to live a long quiet life in spite of what he did, but I wasn’t going to let him leave this world quietly.  And on Sunday it was exactly fifty years to the day since Lena was taken from me.  I did all my research, I found a supplier for the concentrated acid I decided to use, and I did what I needed to do.  I’m a lot stronger than him, it was easy in the end.”

“I’m going to have to take you into custody.  You know that, don’t you?”

The old musician nodded.

“Of course.  You’ve got to do what you need to do too.  Only, just let me play one last piece.  Please?” 

* * *

 

Wallander had sat, quiet and respectful, listening to the music, a swansong from an artist who would maybe never have the chance to play again.  Even now, as he stared through the trees and over the lake, he could hear the tune in his head.  He doubted that he would ever forget it.  He wondered whether he would ever really understand humans properly.  How could someone embrace such tenderness and such brutality at the same time?

He climbed back in the car.  It was getting dark now, and he sat for a few minutes staring at the dying glimmer of the sunset, before switching on the radio.  The last few bars of a nocturne filled the car, then a moment of silence.  Finally a new piece began to play – a piano accompanied by a solitary violin.  The melody was slow and sparse and achingly beautiful.  After a few moments tears began to prick at Wallander’s eyes.  Aware of a great weight somewhere inside him, he let them run down his face, then he took a deep breath and felt suddenly much lighter.  The aching had gone for now.  He smiled a little at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, and wiped his face.

We are what we are, he thought.  No more and no less.  We’re all only human.  We do what we feel we have to do, each and every one of us.

The tune ended and Wallander turned the radio off and put in a CD of Maria Callas.  He started the engine and drove thoughtfully back to Ystad, leaving the lake to its own dark reflections.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intended as a tribute to Henning Mankell, and was begun around the time of the first anniversary of his death. I have tried to write in a style similar to Henning's, and concentrate on the character's inner thoughts and reflections as he would have. I hope I've managed to produce a piece of writing worthy of him. The piece of piano and violin music referenced is Spiegel Im Spiegel by Arvo Pärt, hence the name of the story.


End file.
